Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  “I do not,” I assure him. “Prospero?”

  Oh, but the handle of the door is turning, and like that, whoosh, Ariel is gone and I am alone.

  Spying.

  I throw the cloth over the mirror, run for the balcony, and dive over it, clinging to the walls of the palace like a lizard and scrambling downward.

  That evening Master orders me to kill a hen, and I do it. That evening we have a feast, for Master is gladsome and merry and bids me to join them in the kitchen and make merry, too.

  That evening I speak to Miranda.

  THIRTY-TWO

  MIRANDA

  Papa will not say what has come to pass that has him in such high spirits, only that his great work is progressing in accordance with his hopes, but it is a welcome change. In an expansive gesture of generosity, he even bids Caliban to join us for a grand meal; and somewhat to my surprise, Caliban does so with a modicum of good grace. Although he is quiet and withdrawn throughout the meal, I begin to nurture a spark of hope he has softened toward me.

  After we dine on a rare meal of stewed chicken, Papa retires to his sanctum to survey the night sky; and miracle of miracles, for the first time in long months, Caliban does not flee my presence, but asks if he might speak to me, fanning the faint spark within my breast.

  I smile at him, or at least in his direction, since he remains loath to meet my eye. “I would like that.”

  Alas, I have spoken too swiftly.

  Without once looking at me, Caliban tells me how he has been spending his days and what he has observed.

  I listen without comment and a growing sense of hurt and anger. In truth, I do not know what to think. Mayhap I should be grateful that Caliban has softened at all, that he cares for me still; and yet I feel betrayed. Betrayed by his spying, yes, and his unexpected collusion with the spirit Ariel, but most of all by the fact that Caliban prefaces his tale by telling me that he saw Papa and me arrive on the isle all those many years ago.

  Yes, that is the most painful.

  It is quiet in the kitchen. The banked embers in the hearth crackle every now and then, their orange glow shifting beneath their blanket of grey ash. A clay lamp filled with oil pressed from last year’s olives flickers on the table between us and the night breeze carries the scent of pine pollen.

  “Why, Caliban?” I say to him at last, and the words come out with an injured passion I cannot suppress. “Why did you never tell me that you saw Papa and me come to the isle?”

  It startles him enough that he lifts his head to glance at me, dark eyes glimmering in the hearth-glow. “Miranda…” He looks confused. “I did tell you. Do you not remember?”

  “No,” I say and it is true; but now a memory surfaces, a memory of Caliban’s voice divulging a momentous truth beneath the jaws of Setebos casting long shadows over the high crag. “Oh, Caliban! You knew I forgot so many things when I was … afflicted. Why did you not remind me?”

  His shoulders rise and tighten. “After Master did hurt you, after you did heal and learn to be Miranda again, we did not speak of before things. But … but I do not think that is the very most important thing I am telling you tonight.”

  I raise my voice. “It is to me, Caliban! All I have ever wanted to know is where I came from!”

  He looks away. “You were sleeping. That is all I know, Miranda. All the time, you were asleep. I do not know where you and Master came from or how or why. Only that you did.”

  I am weary.

  The bulky pouch of moss strapped between my thighs feels wet and sodden. Soon it will begin to leak and stain my gown if I do not attend to it. I shall have to change it for a fresh pouch before I may take to my bed; change it and place it in a jar, a jar I must deposit outside the door to Papa’s sanctum.

  “Let it be,” I say tiredly to Caliban. “Whatever end Papa works toward, I must accept it is for the best.”

  He shakes his head, and the line of his jaw is stubborn. “No. He hurt you. I prayed to Setebos—”

  “Setebos!” A jagged laugh escapes me. “Oh, Caliban! Do you know what your Setebos is?” I stand and dash tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. “It is the remains of a whale, Caliban; a great fish trapped in a volcanic eruption and turned to stone long before you or I was born. Nothing more.”

  It is a cruel manner in which to deliver such news. Caliban flinches as though I have struck him, yet he persists. “I think they are coming, Miranda. Coming to the isle, whether they want to or not. Not tomorrow, but soon, very soon. The men in Master’s mirror, the men that he is so angry at. My liege, he did say today; and my brother. They are coming. And I do not know what will happen when they do.”

  “I don’t care,” I whisper, although it is a lie. “Let them come! Mayhap it is for the best.”

  Caliban meets my eyes. “What if it is not? What is it that Master does with your blood, Miranda?”

  What, indeed?

  I should like to know; as I should like to know a great many things. But not now, not tonight; mayhap not ever. I do not have the heart for it. I have paid a great price for the desire to know, and my curiosity is not what it once was. Tonight, I wish only for the solace of a warm pallet and a dry pouch between my thighs. I take the oil-lamp from the table. “Ariel goads you,” I say to Caliban with as much gentleness as I can muster. “The spirit is ruled by Mercury and ’tis in his nature to stir trouble. Pay him no heed, or you will suffer for his mischief as I did.”

  I think that shall be the last word on the matter and turn to go, but Caliban surprises me again. “I know,” he says. “That Ariel even did say I should not trust him, and I do not, not even when he is kind and not cruel. But he did say one other thing, too. I think it is a true thing. I think … I think he said Master’s name.”

  I pause. “What is it?”

  “Prospero.”

  Prospero.

  Why, in all my years, did I never think to wonder what Papa’s given name was? I cannot say, yet I did not, not even when I realized that Caliban mistook the word Master for Papa’s name. It is a piece of knowledge that settles into me, filling a gap I had not realized existed until this very moment.

  And yet, does it matter?

  No.

  Of all the knowledge that Papa has withheld from me, that is a thing for which I cannot blame him, for it never occurred to me to ask.

  “Thank you,” I say to Caliban. “I am … I am grateful for your concern. And I wish we had spoken of the matter of your memory of our arrival on the isle sooner.”

  Caliban stands with his head bowed, ragged forelock obscuring his eyes. “I am sorry, Miranda,” he murmurs. “I did not know.”

  I fight the urge to reach for his hand, my throat tightening. “Oh, Caliban! Of course you didn’t. You meant it as a kindness, and I am sorry to have thought otherwise. But you say we are friends still and always; if it is true, there should be no secrets between us.” A bitter note creeps into my voice. “The Lord God in His heaven knows there are enough secrets in our lives! You and I, we should be different, as we have always been to each other. But you must promise me that you’ll not spy on Papa again. It’s not worth the risk.” He says nothing, but his shoulders hunch again. “Caliban, please! Will you not promise me? I should be heartsick if Papa were to catch you and punish you for it, to hurt you as badly as he hurt me. You are dearer than a friend, as dear as a brother to me. Is it so great a boon to ask?” Still his silence continues, and at once I am hurt and angry again. “Do you love me so little that you will not grant me this one small kindness?”

  “So little!” Caliban utters a bark of laughter, a harsh grating sound. “No, Miranda. Too much.”

  I stare at him. “Then why—”

  He interrupts me. “Is it truly what you wish?”

  I swallow, only just beginning to understand what he has said to me. “I … yes. Caliban, it’s too dangerous, and you’re no match for Papa’s magic. But—”

  “Then I will do as you wish.” He backs away from me, a
voiding my gaze. “Good night, Miranda.”

  I am left alone in the kitchen.

  I make my way to my bed-chamber, then tend to the business of my woman’s courses. The Moorish writing on the walls of the palace wavers in the flickering light of my oil-lamp as I creep upstairs to deposit the clay jar with the latest blood-sodden pouch outside the door of Papa’s sanctum, then return to my bed-chamber. Although I lie on my pallet, my thoughts are reeling. The solace and the promise of sleep that I had craved only a short time ago now seems as distant and unattainable as the moon.

  Caliban’s declaration has cracked open the wall of weariness with which I sought to protect myself, and now the evening’s revelations cascade through my thoughts.

  Prospero.

  Papa’s name is Prospero, and Ariel has known it all along. Caliban saw Papa and me arrive on the isle and surmised that Papa has enemies somewhere across the wide sea, and he has known it all along; and oh, I cannot help but feel a sting of betrayal in it still.

  And yet Caliban has only ever sought to protect me. It is not his fault that he did not realize the memory was lost to me.

  Caliban loves me.

  Too much, he said; and I do not think he meant as a dear friend, as a sister. No, this is different. It is a thought that makes my heart feel wild and tender and strange, and yet it frightens me, too.

  Oh, but Papa! My thoughts circle back to him. Can it be true that his great working is an undertaking of vengeance? Against whom? My liege, my brother, Caliban said.

  My brother.

  If it is true, Papa has a brother; a brother who betrayed him. Somewhere, I have an uncle.

  My liege.

  Somewhere, I have a king; a king who also wronged us.

  If it is true.

  I think of the various images that Papa has bidden me to render; of the second face of Gemini; the image of the eagle-headed man that is to be invoked in matters of oppression and evil, the image I was only just given permission to finish a month ago.

  Oppression.

  Evil.

  I think of one I have only just finished, one I was proud to complete before the onset of my courses; the first face of Libra, an image of a man with a lance in one hand holding a bird dangling by its feet, an image which Papa deigned to tell me ruled over matters of justice.

  I think Caliban is right. As more bits and pieces of knowledge settle into place inside me alongside Papa’s name—Prospero!—it is like painting the outline of an image. I begin to see the picture that they form. The dim remnants of my memories are true. Papa and I came from elsewhere, a place where the kind ladies with gentle hands who sang me to sleep dwelled; and yet somehow we were betrayed and cast out.

  Mayhap, like Caliban’s mother, Sycorax, we were exiled to this isle because of Papa’s magic. Can it be?

  My mind shies away from the thought. No, I will not think it. Papa worships the good Lord God in His heaven, and the influence that he draws down from the celestial spheres originates in the very Empyrean where God dwells. I have felt the sacred power of the Spiritus Mundi flow through me when I paint at Papa’s bidding, and I cannot believe it is anything but holy. No, there can be no comparison between Papa’s art and the dark sorcery practiced by Caliban’s mother in the name of a demonic spirit. Even the spirit Ariel, as much as he loathes the servitude to which Papa has bound him, has never suggested such a thing.

  Ariel …

  It comes to me now that Ariel knew of Caliban’s feelings. He is set against himself, Ariel told me, and thou art the cause of it.

  Too much.

  But what does it mean to love too much? How can there be such a thing as too much love?

  All my life I have yearned for nothing more. I think of the profound ache of loneliness that filled my childhood days before Papa summoned Caliban; and oh, I do love Caliban! I love him fiercely. I should not have been so angry at the notion that he kept a secret from me did I not love him so.

  How can it be too much?

  And yet another memory slides through my thoughts, one I have sought to suppress; glass shattered on the tile floor, the pale thing gasping amidst the bright, broken shards, and Papa’s voice, soft and terrible. You’ve killed your mother all over again, Miranda.

  The homunculus.

  It was a thing that should never have been made, Ariel said; so Caliban told me. But Papa did make it. I think of the braided circlet of dark gold hair tied around its ankle like a tether.

  My mother’s hair?

  Is that why Papa made the homunculus? Because he loved my mother too much to let her go, so much so that he sought to restore her in defiance of the Lord God’s divine order? If that is so, then I cannot be sure that whatever great working Papa undertakes now is truly in the service of all that is good and holy.

  Although it is not cold, I shiver under my bed-linens, my skin prickling with apprehension. I cannot bear to think these thoughts any longer. Too much—yes, it is altogether too much indeed. In the harsh light of so many possible revelations, I feel as fragile and exposed as a newly hatched chick. I pull the linens over my head, curling my body around the dull ache in my lower belly that accompanies the flow of my woman’s courses, and pray for the merciful comfort of sleep. It comes in time, although it does not come swiftly nor does it come without a final worrisome thought, one that chases me down the well of oblivion to haunt my dreams.

  Caliban spoke truly when he said I failed to grasp the most important thing he told me this evening.

  If he is right, Papa’s enemies, whomever they may be—brother, uncle, king—are coming to the isle.

  And they are coming soon.

  THIRTY-THREE

  CALIBAN

  I go to my high place.

  It is dark, but there are no clouds and the moon is only a few days past its full roundness. It is enough light to see if I am careful and slow. I do not like to leave Miranda alone after what I did tell her about Master’s plans, but whatever thing is going to happen, it is not going to happen tonight.

  And there is the other thing I did tell her.

  I need to think about it.

  Atop the crag, Setebos laughs at the night sky. I see the shape of his big head and jaws as darkness against the stars. The faraway stars look so little, like they are little silvery fish for Setebos to swallow, gulpity-gulp-gulp.

  In his sanctum in the palace, Master is looking at those very stars through the shining tube on the balcony—the balcony where I did promise I would not hide and spy—and making notes on his charts.

  (What do you see in the stars, Master? Not fish.)

  Miranda says Setebos is a fish, a great fish turned to stone. She did say it because she was angry, but I think she believes it is true. Maybe it is true. But why can it not be Setebos, too? If Miranda’s painting of the bright-faced man standing on a winged serpent is the sun, maybe my Setebos-the-fish is also Setebos in the same way.

  I do not know, only that Setebos watches over the isle, watches over me. I prayed to him and Miranda did wake.

  I sit on my haunches with Setebos behind me and look out at the sea. The water is black under the night sky, starlight and moonlight making silver sparkles that dance on the little waves that ripple, ripple, ripple. Far below the crag, the waves make soft splashing sounds on the rocks. There are no fish jumping, no undines playing, no birds flying in the moonlight.

  All is calm.

  There is a storm in the offing.

  I do not trust Ariel, no, but in this I do believe him. It was a storm that brought Master—no. No, I will not call him that anymore, not in the thoughts I think. If I dare not say it aloud, I will call him by his name in my thoughts. For all his magic, he is only a man, and I swore no oath to serve him. Prospero. Prosssspero. I roll the word over, hearing it inside my head. Yes, it was a storm that brought Prospero and Miranda to the isle.

  Now I am afraid it is a storm that will take them away.

  Not him; her.

  You, Miranda.

&nbs
p; I wrap my arms around my knees and rock back and forth. I did not know I should have told her what I saw. I did not know she had forgotten.

  How is it that I hurt her when it is the most veriest thing I never, ever wanted to do? Poor, dumb, clumsy monster. No wonder that Miranda thinks I do not love her.

  But I did tell her tonight.

  Yes, I did.

  I think of her face when I did say what I did, of her pink lips open in surprise and her smooth brow going wrinkle-crinkle as she does try to understand; oh, and I wish that was all I think of, but it is the first time I have been so close to Miranda in oh, so many days, and I think of the light of the oil-lamp showing the curve of her breasts under her gown, warm golden light like honey on her skin, and I remember Miranda naked over the wash-basin and my rod stiffens and rises in my breeches, the head pushing out from its hood, and in my thoughts I say, no, no, I will not do it. Not thinking of Miranda, no. I pray to Setebos to take the wanting away, but Setebos only laughs at the stars, laughs and laughs as though to say, no, this is what you are, Caliban, not even I can change it.

  Then it is too late and I am already untying my breeches and reaching for my aching rod, my hand sliding up and down, up and down, the poor dumb monster hunched over his swollen flesh.

  Oh, it feels so good; and oh, it is cruel that a thing that is bad should feel so good.

  Miranda, I am sorry.

  Afterward I lie on my back and look at the stars like silver fishes between Setebos’s laughing jaws.

  Is this badness inside me because Umm was bad, I wonder? It is the thing she did try to make Ariel do, I understand it now. To lie with her the way I want to lie with Miranda.