Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Am I?” I ask at last.

  “You are,” Papa says in a tone that makes it clear he takes no pleasure in the fact; not today, mayhap never again. “Appearances did not lie; your mother was a virtuous woman, Miranda. Virtuous and true. And I tell you, you have shamed her memory most grievously.”

  Hot tears seep from my eyes, trickle down my cheeks.

  “I should not have doubted,” he continues. “Those who betrayed me took everything from me but you. Had you not been mine, they surely would have taken you, too. You were precious to me, once, and what I did in my hunger for certainty was wrong. It was a violation of the Lord God’s order. I knew it in my heart, and yet I pursued it. I thought her death and your affliction was my punishment for it, but I think now that I was too hasty to presume that I in my finite wisdom understood God’s intention.”

  You were precious to me, once. I bow my head, tears falling to spatter the backs of my hands.

  “What you did—” Papa pauses again, breathing hard through his nose. “It was perverse and unnatural. To cast aside all modesty, to lie brazen beneath the open skies with a misshapen brute of a creature, a witch’s spawn, an illiterate, half-tamed savage, and suffer his touch willingly—”

  I think of the profound gentleness with which Caliban touched me, and weep harder.

  For myself?

  For him?

  I am not sure.

  Papa cannot bear to continue in the same vein. “It was a violation of God’s order as surely as was my own trespass,” he says firmly. “And as such, I believe that your transgression is the just penance I have reaped for my own. It is for that reason that I have chosen not to punish you further.”

  I lift my head and gaze at him through my tears, and there is a bitter edge to my voice. “Shall I thank you for it?”

  Papa frowns. “You should give thanks to the good Lord God in His mercy and wisdom that His servant Ariel alerted me before your honor was wholly despoiled,” he says in a curt voice. “If you would give thanks to me, I will take it in the form of your unquestioning obedience.”

  “Yes, Papa.” What else am I to say? My empty belly gripes with hunger. “May I have something to eat now?”

  “You may spend this last night in fasting and prayer,” Papa says. “On the morrow, you may break your fast and resume your labors.”

  So I am to be allowed to continue. A month ago, I should have been nothing but grateful to hear it. Now I merely wonder that Papa does not reckon my innocence so despoiled that I will taint his great working.

  Oh, but for all that he has hinted at its very purpose tonight, he reckons me too ignorant to grasp it. He does not imagine the breadth of the illicit knowledge I have gained.

  My brother, my liege.

  A love spell to ensnare a king’s son, the salamander said.

  Papa seeks vengeance on those who betrayed him, and I … I am nothing more than the bait in his snare. Lowering my head once more, I let my hair fall to curtain the sides of my face.

  “Miranda,” Papa says in a harsh tone, and I jerk my head upward in response, feeling faint at the sudden movement. Oh, dear Lord God, I am so very hungry. Papa’s gaze pins me to the pallet where I sit. “You are to have no further communication with…” The hard line of his lips twists in disgust, as though the name he will utter tastes foul and rotten in his mouth. “Caliban. And if you fail to obey me…” One by one, he touches the amulets that hang from his neck, selecting Caliban’s and closing his fingers around it with deliberate menace. “I will not punish you, no. The witch’s whelp will pay the price for both of you. Do you understand?”

  Understand? Oh, I am fairly well sick with understanding. But at least his threat means Caliban yet lives.

  I nod. “Yes, Papa.”

  He nods back at me. “Very well.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  CALIBAN

  Yes, Master. No, Master.

  I will not touch Miranda, no, not with the littlest finger of my hand, never ever never again.

  I will not speak to Miranda.

  I will not look at Miranda.

  Yes, Master, I will do my chores. I will fetch wood for the hearth, I will bring food for the larder.

  No, Master, I will not go to the high place; I will not say prayers to Setebos, which is nothing but a whale’s skull, because you have forbidden it.

  (Oh, Setebos!)

  Yes, Master, you are merciful.

  Yes, Master, you are wise.

  These are the things I say, but they are only noises I make with my mouth. Inside my head, I am thinking how I might kill you.

  Oh, it is a bad thought, a very bad thought, the worstest of thoughts, but I cannot help it.

  You would have killed me if Miranda did not stop you, Master. Prospero. You very nearly did. You very nearly did kill Miranda, too.

  But I cannot raise my hand against you, no. Even to think it makes me shake with my skin all a-creeping, and all the hurting you did give me hurts like it is new. And so I look at the chains around your neck and the charms that do hang from them and sparkle in the sunlight, silver and gold, bits of hair and blood, and oh, there is Miranda’s charm and there is Caliban’s charm, and if it were not there, you could not tell me to come and go and hurt me so.

  You could not punish Miranda so.

  They do not look so very strong, those chains. I could break them with my hands. Oh, but that is another thought that makes my skin creepity-creep and a sick feeling come into my belly.

  Too bad for the poor dumb monster, poor dumb Caliban. He will have to use his dull wits and not his strong hands.

  I gather mussels and think.

  I gather wood and think.

  And I think to myself, oh ho! I cannot raise my hand to Master, not even to pull the charms from his neck, but Miranda can. Her little hands are not strong enough to break the chains, but they are quick and clever enough to find the clasps that hold them closed and undo them.

  And then—

  I raise a big branch high over my head and bring it down hard over a fallen log; hard, so hard it crrracks! Even though it makes my body ache, it feels good to do it.

  “I would that was your head, Master,” I whisper.

  “Oh, la!” a hated voice says behind me. “Thou shouldst not say such things.”

  My shoulders go tight and rise toward my ears. I have not seen the spirit since … that day. “I will say what I like!” I say without turning around. “Or will you betray me for this, too?”

  Ariel comes around before me, all foamy-white and a-flutter in the breeze, stepping oh, so lightly over the bits and pieces of scattered wood under his feet. “I do but serve our master.”

  I look at him. “You would be free if he were dead, too.”

  The spirit’s eyes blaze unexpectedly. “Free? Say rather that I shouldst be damned for all eternity!”

  “So?” I pull back my lips and show him my teeth. “Miranda does love me, and I would suffer any hurt for her!”

  “Thou speakest of things thou knowest not,” Ariel says with pity. “Dost suppose the tenderness of her maiden’s heart shouldst survive thy cruel dispatch of her own father?” He shakes his head, wisps of fog stirring. “Set aside these murderous thoughts.”

  “Thoughts are not deeds,” I say in defiance. “You cannot tell me what I may or may not think!”

  Now the spirit’s eyes go clear and cold, as cold as the stream in winter. “Thoughts give birth to deeds, and thine run red with blood. I tell thee, if thou hast an ounce of wisdom lodged within the dense bone of thy skull, set them aside.”

  I laugh a hard laugh. “Will you carry tales to Master if I do not?”

  “The more fool thou if thou thinkest Prospero takes thee for aught but a villain,” Ariel says with the cutting knives in his voice. “Thou didst seek to defile his own daughter!”

  (Oh, Miranda!)

  “I’d do it again, too!” I spit at him.

  “Aye, thou wouldst,” Ariel says as though the words t
aste bad in his mouth. “But thou shalt have no second chance; no, nor to plot bloody vengeance either, for I am bidden to keep watch over thee and make certain thou cause no further mischief until our master’s work is done.”

  I look at wispety Ariel and laugh again. “You? What will you do other than fetch Master?”

  Ariel smiles, a smile like the edge of a blade. “Thou thinkest me a harmless sprite?” He does open his arms wide. “Ah, but I have other guises.”

  A wind comes, not a whooshity little breeze but a great rushing wind that roars and roars, and that Ariel does grow and grow up into the sky, bigger than a man, yes, taller than trees, and his hair like white wisps of foam and fog goes dark and spreads like storm-clouds across the sky. He says something like thunder and lightning flashes in his eyes, then rain is coming down and I am on my belly in the dirt with fear shaking my aching bones, my hands over my head and my eyes squeezed tight shut, poor dumb monster, the rain hitting hard like little stones on my back and making the dirt to mud.

  There is another crrrack sound so very near and I see red flash behind the lids of my eyes and smell wood burning, and sounds that are not words come out of my mouth.

  Then there is only rain, then nothing.

  I open my eyes and pull myself out of the mud.

  Ariel is the Ariel I know again. I stare at him and wish I were Umm to put him in the pine tree.

  “Now thou knowest,” he says. “Take heed and think to do no harm. I will be watching.”

  Whooshity-whoosh.

  Smoke is coming from an oak tree where lightning split its bark, but only a little bit. The wood is wet and I do not think it will keep burning. All the wood I did gather is wet, too.

  Oh, I do hurt.

  I limp to a new place and begin to gather dry wood. There is rage in my heart and it is hot and angry.

  I try to make it go cold.

  I must be cold and angry to think; to plan like Master did begin to plan all those years ago.

  By and by, I think that Ariel did tell me a true thing. Miranda’s heart is tender; tender and true.

  I cannot kill her father. Not with my own hands, no.

  Oh, but what if it is true that there are other hands coming? Hands that belong to men who are already Master’s enemies.

  I do not say the thought aloud, because that Ariel might be anywhere, lurking and spying; but I smile and now it is my smile that has knives in it. And then I think it may be dangerous even to smile such a smile, so I unsmile it. I bend my back and gather wood like a good servant, and I think the thought very very quietly to myself.

  I will find a way to use their hands against you, Master.

  THIRTY-NINE

  MIRANDA

  When morning comes and I am allowed at last to break my fast, it is difficult to contain my hunger. Famished as I am, I am hard-pressed not to gobble my food with unseemly haste; but Papa’s scowling face across the table reminds me that I have only just been paroled for my most unseemly behavior.

  The thought of it makes me flush all over again with shame, and I must duck my head to conceal it.

  Of Caliban, I catch but a glimpse when he comes to rake the coals in the hearth. Although I am careful not to look directly at him, out of the corner of my eye I see that he is moving stiffly.

  I can tell that he is careful not to look in my direction, too. Were I not wrung dry of tears, I should like to weep anew for both of us poor innocent sinners.

  Once we have finished and I have wiped the silver platters clean, Papa bids me accompany him to his sanctum. There I see that he has completed the painting of the Lady Venus on his own while I was confined to my chamber.

  The sight fills me with dismay. She is a crude caricature, her gown a triangle of grassy green that lacks any suggestion of folds. The red fruit she holds in one hand—an apple, the same fruit that tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden—is a vague, round blob. The golden tresses that are meant to spill over her shoulders are rendered in stark yellow squiggles. Her eyes are mismatched, one narrow and squinting, and the crimson smear of her mouth leers out at the world.

  The Queen of Love has been ill served by Papa. Although I say naught, he follows my gaze and divines my thoughts.

  “I had no choice but to render her myself,” he says in a curt tone. “It was necessary that the image be finished while the stars were yet favorable.”

  “Of course, Papa,” I say. “What do you require of me?”

  It transpires that there are two images Papa wishes painted in quick succession ere the stars shift to an unfavorable alignment, and these are the first and third faces of Cancer. I do not know what influences they govern, and he does not deign to tell me; wishing, I suppose, to preserve what ignorance is left to me.

  It is less than he imagines, a thought that reminds me I never did tell Caliban about the secret the salamander revealed to me. Nor shall I ever if I remain obedient to Papa’s will, for he has forbidden me all communication with Caliban. And if I disobey him, it is Caliban who will bear the cost of it.

  If there is any course of action save obeying Papa that lies before me, I cannot see it.

  I study the images of the first and third faces of Cancer. The first face is the trickiest, for it combines elements of man and beast into a single creature, a four-legged being with the face of a man and the body of a horse. It wears a blanket of fig leaves, and has queer, attenuated fingers. Of course, I have never seen a horse, but gazing at the illustration, it seems to me that its body is not so different from that of a goat, which is a form I know well.

  There are a good many horses in the Bible. A line from the Song of Solomon comes to me unbidden.

  I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh’s chariots.

  Once again, I flush, remembering the sound of birdsong, the smell of grass, and Caliban’s mouth on my breast. I glance at the crude image of red-lipped Venus on the wall and she leers at me.

  I shudder and return my gaze to the first face of Cancer, forming an image in my thoughts.

  The little gnomes have replenished my pots of paint during my confinement. I take up the pot of shining black pigment and climb atop my stepping stool. I dip my brush, and with one sweeping stroke, I outline the curve of the horse’s neck. Another line from the Bible comes to me as I do so.

  Hast thou given the horse strength? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?

  It is from the Book of Job, which is a terrible tale and one I do not wholly understand. Papa should like me to have the same faith in him, I think, that Job had in the Lord God. Job was rewarded for his suffering in the end, though I cannot help but wonder if he continued to mourn for the children that were lost to him. I hope so. I should hate to lose everything that was dear to me; and yet I fear I may.

  I feel as insubstantial as a leaf borne on the rushing stream of Papa’s formidable will. All the bits of knowledge that I have gathered or that have been thrust upon me matter naught.

  The lineaments of the first face of Cancer emerge beneath my brush. Were I made otherwise, mayhap I should not seek to make such a good job of it; and yet I cannot. It seems the last measure of joy left to me. After some hours, I climb down from my stool, step back, and admire my work—the proud arch of the horse’s neck, the bunched muscles of its haunches, the unlikely human face.

  Why, I wonder, is one thing gauged noble and beautiful and another hideous and unlovely when it is all part of God’s creation?

  Why is a horse more noble than a goat?

  Why is a hawk more noble than a toad?

  I am a monster, Caliban said to me, and though it be a sinful act I would undo if I could, there is a secret part of me that is glad I showed him he could never be monstrous in my eyes.

  I wish Papa could see Caliban as I do; see the goodness and kindness in him, but I fear that is a thing that will never come to pass.

  I clean my brush with sharp-smelling turpentine, then shake out my arms which are numb and aching from having been ra
ised for so long, opening and closing my hands until my blood is flowing freely in my veins once more. I dip my brush into the pot of green pigment. The malachite from which it is ground corresponds with Venus. I do not use the pigment straight from the pot, but mix it on a piece of slate with other colors, brown umber and yellow ochre, until I have attained a more subtle leaflike hue.

  I wish that I had been able to paint the image of the Lady Venus. I’ve learned ever so much more than when I first began. I would have made her dress the pale green hue of the sea below the white curl of a breaking wave when the sun shines on it. I would have made the golden locks of her hair graceful and flowing. Oh, I would have made her face so beautiful and kind.

  But mayhap love is not always kind.

  Ariel said as much to me once; and as much as the spirit meddles, I do not believe he lies.

  There is kindness in my cruelty, he said, and cruelty in thy kindness.

  Is it an unkindness I dealt Caliban after all? And yet I do love him dearly. And yet, and yet …

  Oh, Lord God, I wish I could undo what I did.

  I climb onto the stepping stool and begin painting fig leaves.

  FORTY

  CALIBAN

  Miranda paints and paints.

  I know it is true because she is gone to Master’s sanctum every day, and at night there are colors on the skin of her hands and fingers, but I do not spy because it is a promise I did make to her.

  It is hard, oh, so very hard, not to look at her!

  I want to look.

  I want to speak.

  I want to touch.

  But I do not; only the littlest little bit when Master—Prospero—is not looking. We look, then; only look. Quick looks, as quick as little fishes in the stream.

  It is like it was in the beginning.

  Oh, I did love you from the beginning, Miranda.

  In the beginning when I had no words, even before Master did summon me, I remember I did try to speak to you with my eyes and my hands; my eyes that did watch you from the walls of your garden, my hands that did bring you gifts.

  Now there are only looks like whispers.