Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  Are you?

  Yes.

  Do you?

  Yes.

  I love you, I say with my eyes.

  I love you, I say with my rough hands that do gather wood, gather greens and tubers in the garden, gather eggs from the hens, gather milk from the goat’s teats, gather fishes from the stream and mussels from the rocks. I love you, I love you.

  I gather flowers from the gardens and the fields, and put them on Miranda’s window-ledge when she is not there.

  I love you, the flowers say.

  Ariel, that Ariel, does frown at the flowers, but Master has said nothing to him of flowers.

  So I leave flowers; spring flowers, then summer flowers. I gather the red and orange and yellow trumpet flowers, for a trumpet is a thing that makes a loud noise like a shout, and I tie their vines together and leave them to shout I love you in a row from Miranda’s window-ledge.

  Soon, I think.

  Soon.

  FORTY-ONE

  MIRANDA

  Papa is consumed by his labors.

  He pores over his charts, then paces his sanctum, muttering to himself. He concocts incenses and vanishes to perform private suffumigations upon himself, returning with his robes smelling of resins and herbs and acrid things. Betimes he banishes me from his sanctum that he might invoke the mirror’s magic and gaze into it. He eats little and sleeps less, up at all hours of the night.

  He grows thin, the bones of his face becoming prominent and angular as his flesh dwindles, the joints of his hands and wrists emerging like knobs beneath his skin. The last of the grey vanishes from his hair and beard, leaving it as white as Ariel’s.

  I paint at his bidding and obey him in every particular, because I am afraid to do otherwise.

  The salamander in its brazier remains silent, watching me with its glittering ruby eyes.

  The moon waxes and wanes; my woman’s courses come and go.

  Papa bids Caliban to procure a white he-goat from amongst the wild goats that roam the isle. When Caliban succeeds, the goat is tethered in an abandoned garden where it bleats in protest all day long, until Papa is sufficiently irritated to silence it with a charm. It continues to bleat noiselessly, opening its muzzle to expose its curiously even and childlike teeth, its pink tongue protruding. Its amber eyes with their inhuman vertical pupils beg the empty skies for an answer.

  I do not give the goat a name. Those days have long since passed. I have not named a hen since Bianca’s sacrifice, and I did not name Oriana’s replacement when she grew too old to give milk and was slaughtered and rendered into stew meat.

  I fear for Papa’s health and wonder if he has begun to lose his wits. In the secret part of me where I think dreadful thoughts to which I dare not give voice, I wonder if it would not be so terrible if Papa were to perish with his great work undone. It is a vile thought unworthy of my filial loyalty and I am ashamed to think it; and yet, I do.

  Once, I should have feared for my own survival were aught to befall Papa, but those days, too, are behind me. Caliban provides for most of our needs now, and he would be more than capable of providing for our survival if we were bereft of Papa’s presence. The elementals would not obey us; there would be no gnomes to till the gardens, no undines to fill the wells and make the fountains flow, but we could till the earth ourselves and fetch water from the stream.

  We could make the isle our own Eden, Caliban and I.

  Betimes it is a pleasant thought; betimes, a terrifying one. I have an inkling, now, of what it means for a woman to lie with a man as bride and bridegroom, and that I do not fear. Rather, I welcome it. And yet, what do I know of bearing children? Only that my own mother died of my birth, and that I suspect that like my woman’s courses, it is a bloody, messy business. I have not forgotten the Lord God’s injunction to Eve.

  I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children …

  And so I put the disloyal thought aside and continue to paint at Papa’s bidding, peopling the walls of his sanctum with images of all of the seven governors, including an image of the Sun even more splendid than the first, and many of the various faces of the twelve signs of the Zodiac, until such a morning when Papa greets me with his grey eyes wide and shining, gladness radiating from him as though the very marrow of his bones is alight with it.

  “Miranda,” he says in a deep, hushed voice, and I could weep at the suggestion of affection in it, the affection he has not shown me since the day he found me with Caliban on the grassy banks of the stream. “The hour is nigh. I have prayed and prayed upon the matter, and God has spoken to me.”

  My throat tightens. “Yes, Papa?”

  Papa nods with great solemnity. “If I am to succeed in this working, a great sacrifice is required of me.”

  “Is it the he-goat, Papa?” I say.

  “Oh, the goat, aye; but it is merely an offering.” Papa shakes his head, white hair stirring. “No, if I succeed on the morrow, I have pledged to the Lord God Himself that I will renounce my magic.”

  I gaze at him.

  Papa smiles a tranquil smile at me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Your rightful destiny awaits you, Miranda; yours and mine alike. And I shall procure it for the both of us. Once it is done, there shall be but one last image for you to render.”

  If I am to succeed on the morrow …

  There is no more time left.

  I swallow hard against the taste of fear in my mouth.

  FORTY-TWO

  CALIBAN

  It is still dark when I wake with a feeling like creepity ants crawling on my skin, summer-dark and warm, but oh, my skin is creepity-crawling, and I have felt this before. It is a warning from Setebos who watches.

  Something is coming.

  Across the sea, someone is coming.

  I want to go to the high place to see even though Master has forbidden it, but no, there is Master himself, there is Prospero, banging on the door of my chamber with his staff and shouting, “Awaken, awaken, make haste and fetch the white he-goat to the courtyard, you lazy villain!”

  Fetch it yourself, I think; but I do not say it. He would only punish me, or worse, make Miranda do it.

  So I fetch the goat. It does not want to come and fights the rope, its mouth opening and closing without any noise, but I am stronger than the goat is. “I am sorry,” I whisper as I drag it to the courtyard. “I am sorry.”

  “Cease your muttering,” Prospero says to me, and I do. He is in fine robes I have never seen before, all yellow-gold and shimmering, and there is a circle of gold around his hair.

  I look sideways at Miranda and see that she is in a fine new yellow gown, too, although this I did see in the pirates’ treasure so many years ago. Oh, and there are gold necklaces with sparkling stones around her neck, too; but she looks sideways at me, quick, quick, and I see her face is pale in the faint light.

  She is afraid.

  I am afraid, too. The creepity feeling grows stronger and stronger; biting ants, now. But I am angry, too.

  The sun does rise in the east and Prospero says his dawn chant, the deep, magic words rolling from his mouth. The air feels shivery, and Miranda shivers although it is warm, and the lid on the smoke-trickling metal bowl that hangs from a chain she holds shivers, too. The goat tugs at the rope, its mouth opening and closing, opening and closing.

  Master—Prospero—takes out his knife. “Hold it fast, lad,” he says to me, and I do. I hold the goat by its curling horns, lifting its head toward the sky and holding it in place to show its throat. Its tongue sticks out.

  Prospero goes to one side of the goat, and flash, waah! He cuts its throat open. Blood comes out hard and fast, one, two, three, then slower. The goat’s legs go crumplety-crumple under it and it sags heavy, its horns sliding in my hands. I catch it and lower it gently to the stones. Some of its blood gets on my hands. The fear goes out of its eyes, and they are empty like glass.

  Now Master wipes his knife on the goat’
s rough white hair, leaving smears of red. He puts away the knife and lifts the lid of the smoking bowl, puts herbs and things on the coals. He takes the chain from Miranda and begins to swing the bowl around, leaving trails of strong-smelling smoke like streaks of clouds in the air, and begins to make his long prayer.

  This is the part I remember from when he did free Ariel that is so very long, only it is the sun that Master prays to this time, and it is all, oh, Lord Sun who is so wonderful, oh, Lord Sun who is called this thing and that thing and another thing, oh, Lord Sun who is the light of the world, I ask you this, I ask you that, oh, Lord Sun, hear me, hear me, hear me.

  All the while the creepity feeling is shouting at me to go, go, go, go to the high place and look!

  But even if I did dare, I would not leave Miranda. It is the longest time I have been near her since that day. Master is not looking at us, he is looking toward the sun, waving his staff and his bowl around, making his prayer.

  Behind his back, Miranda and I look sideways at each other again. She is so near, I could touch her hand; only mine are bloody.

  I love you, I say to her with my eyes.

  She gives me a scared little nod. I love you, too, her eyes say.

  On and on Master’s prayer goes until at last it is over, and I wait for something to happen.

  Nothing does.

  “Ariel!” Master calls. “Come, brave spirit!” And there is Ariel, whooshity-whoosh, coming all white and fluttering, like he has been waiting for this very moment for all of his life. “The hour is upon us, good Ariel!” Master says to him. “Do you recall all that I require of you? Are you prepared to do as I bade you?”

  Ariel does bow. “I do and I am, Master.”

  Master lifts up his staff. “Then fly, brave spirit; wreak my will, and earn your freedom in the bargain!”

  Ariel laughs a high, wild laugh and leaps into the air, wind gathering beneath him. “I go, Master!”

  My skin creeps and creeps.

  Master watches him go, then gives me a dark look. “You have no further part to play in the events of the day. Hang the goat’s carcass in the garden outside the kitchen that its blood might drain, then be about your chores.”

  I would like to cut his throat open. “Yes, Master.”

  “Come,” he says to Miranda, giving her the smoke-trickling bowl on its chain to carry. “We are bound for the watchtower.”

  Leave the goat and go, go, go, says the creepity feeling; but Miranda looks one last look behind her at me, and Master looks, too.

  So I pick up the dead he-goat, which is very heavy, much heavier than a hare, and put it over my shoulders, holding it in place by its front and back legs. Its head hangs down and bounces when I walk and more blood comes from its white throat that is cut open in a wet red smile, getting on the skin of my arm and my chest. More blood gets on me in the garden when I tie its back legs together and hang it from the strong branch of an oak tree, hauling on the rope to lift it and tying knots in a hurry.

  At last the dead goat hangs upside down, its tongue sticking out of its mouth. Its eyes are like balls of yellow-black glass and slow drops of blood fall from its cut throat onto the dust.

  “Poor dumb monster,” I whisper to it; I do not know why. It is only a goat. “I am sorry.”

  The upside-down goat with its stiff dead tongue says nothing. The wind is beginning to rise, strong enough to make the goat sway on its rope.

  Setebos is calling me.

  Go, go, go!

  I run.

  FORTY-THREE

  MIRANDA

  In the watchtower, Papa lowers the spyglass from his eye. “There!” he says in triumph, pointing. “Will you see?”

  “If you would have me do so,” I murmur. He passes the spyglass to me. I transfer the chain of the thurible to my left hand and raise the spyglass to my own eye, following the line of his pointing finger.

  Far out at sea, there is a ship. Unlike the poor faltering vessel which Caliban described when he told me of witnessing Papa’s and my arrival on the isle—a ship of which I have no memory—it is a beautiful thing, proud and graceful, riding the waves with majestic white sails bellied out with wind. Tiny figures swarm over the surface of it. For the first time, I well and truly understand that whatever Papa plans, there are human lives at stake, and dread grips my heart.

  “What do you mean to do, Papa?” I whisper, lowering the spyglass.

  “Watch and you shall see,” he says sternly. “But as you love your life, Miranda, disturb me not, for this working requires the whole of my attention.”

  I nod in obedience. “Yes, Papa.”

  Papa spreads his arms wide, his staff in his right hand. “Barchia!” he cries. “Bethel almoda, Hamar benabis, Zobaa marrach, Fide arrach, Samores maymon, Aczabi!” Although I have heard Papa chant the secret names of the seven governors many times, these are words unknown to me.

  A wind springs up in answer, and I realize that Papa is summoning it. At first it is a light breeze and harmless-seeming, but as Papa continues to chant, the wind grows in intensity. It comes from every direction, swirling through every window of the watchtower.

  The pale blue sky begins to darken as clouds gather.

  The wind rises and rises.

  The sea begins to turn angry, darkening in turn beneath the darkening sky. Gentle rolling swells are churned into peaks crested with white foam.

  “Barchia, Bethel almoda, Hamar benabis, Zobaa marrach, Fide arrach, Samores maymon, Aczabi!”

  Wind blows in buffeting gusts, the sound of it rising to a roar.

  The sea is roiling and my stomach roils, too. Although I am hard-pressed to keep my feet in the gale, I manage to put the spyglass to my eye. The ship that was sailing so gracefully only moments ago is now pitching violently up and down as it climbs the peaks of waves which grow ever steeper and plunges into troughs that grow ever deeper. The tiny figures are scrambling in a frantic attempt to lower the sails. Overhead, lightning flickers in the depths of the dark, towering thunderheads; flickers and then strikes with a furious suddenness, jagged blue-white veins reaching for the churning sea. I stagger backward, dropping the chain of the thurible. The clang of the bowl’s falling is inaudible beneath the howling of the wind. The lid comes loose and coals scatter across the floor of the watchtower.

  There is a crack of thunder so loud it seems my ears must burst to hear it. All my childhood terror of storms returns to me tenfold, and I should like nothing better than to run to my chamber and hide under my bed-linens.

  But oh, dear Lord God, the ship and its poor inhabitants!

  Papa’s tone shifts, and the wind shifts with it, gathering in the west in accordance to his will.

  Lightning flashes and thunder booms. The heavens unloose a pelting rain that comes sideways through the west window of the watchtower. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my gown and look through the spyglass. Enwreathed in strange flames, the ship is being driven by the wind, driven straight for the isle; straight for its rocky shoals. When that happens, I think every man aboard the ship will perish.

  This is the great working to which I have contributed.

  I cannot bear it.

  “Papa, please!” I catch his arm. Tears streak my face, erased by the rain. “Please, do not do this!”

  He turns his face toward me and his expression is terrible. Rain plasters his hair to his head; wind lashes his beard into tatters. “Did I not bid you not to disturb me?” He grasps my amulet in his left hand and gestures in my direction as though to swat a fly. “Leave be, Miranda!”

  My muscles seize in response to his admonition and pain assails every part of me.

  My legs give way beneath me and I fall to the floor of the watchtower, the spyglass tumbling from my hand. A lone coal from the thurible, miraculously unextinguished by the rain, burns through my yellow gown to sear the flesh of my hip. It is the least of my hurts.

  Ignoring me, Papa resumes his chant.

  The storm rages on.

&
nbsp; FORTY-FOUR

  CALIBAN

  Oh, oh, oh! Master has raised such a storm!

  I try to reach the high place before it comes, but it is too far; I am fast, but not fast enough to outrun a storm. I am only beginning to climb when the rain comes.

  It is bad, but it is not so very bad. The rain makes the rocks slippity-slidey under my fingers and toes, but then I am very good at climbing and the rocks keep away the worstest of the wind that blows so hard from the west.

  I do not care about the thunder and lightning. Setebos will protect me, and this storm is not meant for me, not like when that Ariel did make himself a storm above my head.

  No, this storm is for the men who are coming.

  It is dark, though; so dark it does not seem like day anymore. The sun has answered Master’s prayers by hiding his face away. I have never seen such clouds! Lightning flashes when I reach the high place and I see Setebos laughing against the sky, ha-ha!

  Now the wind is so strong it is hard to walk. I creepity-creep on my feet and hands like when I was little.

  I am breathing hard, so I rest for a moment under Setebos’s jaws. Here the wind and the rain cannot reach me so much; oh, but there are voices in the howling wind, and I must see. And so I leave Setebos and creep in the very face of the wind to the edge of the cliff and lay myself flat to look over it.

  Waah!

  There is a ship and it is close, so close! The sea is boiling like water in a pot and the ship is tossed all about.

  Lightning does strike it and it burns with blue-white flames; burns on the tall poles, burns in the ropes and sails. Men run about here and there, and their voices are like tiny gnat voices crying in the storm.

  Does Master—that is Prospero—mean to kill them all, I wonder? If it is so, my plan is lost.

  Thunder sounds like rocks breaking. The rain puts my wet hair in my eyes so I cannot see.

  I push it back.

  Big waves, the biggest waves, crash and crash on the jaggedy rocks below me. On the ship the blue-white fire leaps from place to place, joining itself to itself like ropes of cracklety lightning.