Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  Full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made …

  I think of the stranded prince, and although he is unknown to me, my heart aches to think of the grief this poor, innocent soul must endure, believing his father dead and drowned at the bottom of the ocean. Even Ariel reckoned it a piteous thing to behold, though not so piteous that the spirit does not seize the chance to torment him anew.

  Although I suspect Papa should not like me to seek out the prince, he has not forbidden it, either.

  So I leave my chamber to follow the sound of Ariel’s song and find a young man staggering up the path toward the courtyard.

  Even though I anticipated it, the sight is nonetheless a profound shock. Did I speak of strangers? He is a stranger in the veriest of truths, here on this isle where no mortal foot save mine, Papa’s, and Caliban’s has trod within my lifetime. I find myself dumbstruck, my tongue rooted to the floor of my mouth. The prince’s wet hair clings to his head and face in tendrils like seaweed; his eyes, as brown as acorns, are wide and wild and staring. His mouth is agape. His eyes widen further at the sight of me in my finery.

  “Help!” he says, and the word is a croak in his throat. He holds out his empty hands in a pleading gesture. “My father … please!”

  “You should go,” I whisper. “Leave this place!”

  “My father…” The prince swallows, the apple of his throat rising up and down. “What is this place? How came I here?”

  I do not know what to say, so I say nothing.

  “There was a voice, I followed a voice … it sang a terrible song.” He looks around him. “Was it you?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He looks back at me. “The ship … it foundered on the rocks. I fear my father and all hands aboard it are lost. Are there no men here to help me search for survivors?” He swallows again. “Or at least seek to retrieve my father’s body? If I can do naught else, I would give him an honest burial on dry land.”

  Do I dare tell him his father lives? It seems cruel to make him suffer in ignorance; oh, but I hesitate too long.

  “Hail fortune!” Papa’s voice says behind me, fulsome with amazement. “Can it be that you’ve survived the wreck, lad? You must be a hardy soul indeed to weather such a tempest.”

  “I was in the water, and then…” The prince’s voice trails off; he has no inkling of how he found himself ashore. “Oh, but you saw? Good sir, I pray you, were there others? What of my father?”

  “As to that I cannot say, but you’ve endured a terrible hardship,” Papa says, and gestures toward the palace. “Come, warm yourself at our hearth and dry your clothing.”

  The prince follows Papa obediently, his wet boots making squelching sounds on the paving stones of the courtyard. Despite the warmth of the day, he is shivering.

  I follow behind him.

  It is strange, so strange, to see him in our kitchen. He sits in a chair beside the hearth, steam rising from his sodden attire. He is young, younger than I expected. Above the beginnings of a beard, his mouth looks tender.

  “My father—” he says.

  “Hush.” Papa stirs the contents of a kettle hanging in the hearth with a ladle. “How are you called, lad?”

  He laughs a dreadful laugh. “Called? Why, if my father is dead, I am called Naples.”

  Papa glances at him. “Your father is the king of Naples?”

  “Aye.” The prince buries his face in his hands, knuckles whitening as he clutches at his flesh. He lowers his hands and lifts his stricken face. “Good sir, I must go. Dead or alive, I must seek him.”

  “Hush,” Papa says again. He ladles steaming liquid into a silver goblet. “First drink this tisane, and be restored.”

  No.

  No.

  The word—a mere syllable—burgeons in my mouth, and I think I will utter it; I think I must utter it. I think I will rise from my own seat, dash the chalice from the prince’s tender lips.

  Oh, but Papa looks at me, and his gaze is colder than the coldest days of winter; cold and hate-filled.

  I am afraid.

  I say nothing.

  The prince drinks.

  I watch the apple of his throat bob up and down as he swallows. He drinks deep, the prince does; deep and trusting.

  Of course, it is no harmless tisane of herbs and bark he drinks, but a love potion wrought from my menstruum, the blood of my woman’s courses which Papa has collected, reduced, and refined by his arts.

  The snare has been sprung. Behind my eyes, I see the image of Venus leering forth from the wall of Papa’s sanctum.

  “Oh!” The prince lowers the goblet. A look of soft wonder settles over his features, smoothing away every trace of his grief and confusion. He gazes at me, sitting at our humble kitchen table, my hands clenched in my lap. “You…” he says, and I think he has quite forgotten his poor drowned father. “Oh, you! Fair one, fairest of the fair, tell me true, be you goddess or maiden?”

  A wail of frustration rises to my throat and dies there. The thing is done, and I have done nothing to prevent it.

  Papa smiles.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  CALIBAN

  Oh, Setebos! The palace is so far away and the men are so slow!

  The rocks are too steep for them to climb, so we must go down the shore to the gentle path that slopes down to the sea. At first anger and the sweet red claret burns hot in them, but the farther we do go, the slower and slower they do go.

  The men are tired, I know; they did have to swim a long way to shore. I want to shout at them, to say, go, go, go like the voice that shouts inside my head, but I do not. I say oh, good masters, brave masters, only a little farther, masters.

  And then they are thirsty, and say, oh, friend monster, you did promise to take us to good fresh water.

  I am thirsty, too. My mouth is dry like I did swallow sand and I think oh, Caliban, stupid Caliban, why did you not think to tell them sooner that Prospero did kill their king and their prince?

  Why did you not think of vengeance? They are men like him, and I think vengeance is all he ever did want.

  Is it what I want?

  I do not think so, no. Even though I am angry and I hate him so very much, I do not think it is the same.

  It is only that I want him to be gone, so he cannot punish me anymore, so he can never in the everest ever punish Miranda again.

  So I can look at her.

  So I can touch her.

  So Master cannot take her away from the isle and away from me forever, because I am afraid it is what he means to do.

  Even though I am thirsty too, I do not want to take time to drink, but the men moan and groan and I think they will not go any farther, so I lead them to a little spring that trickles from the rocks. Now the men dip their hands into the spring and drink and drink cold clear water, and it drips from their hands.

  I drink one mouthful thinking, hurry, hurry, hurry!

  A little spirit of air dances in the breeze above the spring, going in dizzy circles. One of the men says, oh, oh, what is it I see?

  In the distance, I hear Ariel’s voice singing; and the other says, oh, oh, what is it I hear?

  The breeze dies and the spirit drifts away. Slow, we are going too slow; and my belly is sick with fear at it.

  “Do not be afraid,” I say to the men. “The isle is full of wonders; spirits that will dance in midair and the splashing fountains, sing oh, such very sweet songs for you, and give you such dreams that you will weep to awaken and long to sleep once more. And when Prospero, my old master, is gone, all the spirits of the isle will serve you. But we must hurry, we must go now to catch Master before he wakes.”

  One of the men frowns. “Why do you not do the deed yourself and claim the isle, monster?”

  I show him my teeth clenched in a smile. “It should be mine, for it was my mother’s before me. But my master has laid such a charm on me that I cannot harm him.”

  “What’s to keep him from laying such a charm on
us?” the other says.

  “Nothing, if we do not surprise him,” I say through my smiling teeth. “That is why we must hurry.”

  The men look at each other and nod.

  Onward.

  FORTY-NINE

  MIRANDA

  The prince’s name is Ferdinand.

  I can scarce bear the way he gazes at me, besotted and unwitting. I should pity him, for ’tis not his fault; and yet there is no pity in my heart in this moment. I loathe him for being drawn into Papa’s snare and setting aside the burden of his grief so lightly; I loathe myself for letting it happen.

  I loathe Papa for doing it, although this I admit to myself only in the secret place inside me.

  “Is your daughter wed?” the prince says to Papa. “Tell me she’s not, for I’ll make her queen of Naples!”

  Papa laughs. “You must prove your worth, lad.”

  The prince’s eyes shine. “What task will you set me, good sir? Name it, and I’ll prove its equal!”

  “Can you butcher a goat?” Papa inquires.

  “I can dress a slain deer a-hunting in the field,” the prince says.

  Papa claps a hand on his shoulder. “Well, then, you can butcher a goat. You’ll find one hanging in the garden and a knife on the sideboard. Make it ready for the spit, and see that the hearth is smoldering hot and the rack of firewood filled.”

  The prince rises from his chair beside the hearth and bounds forth to do Papa’s bidding.

  It is a relief to have him gone.

  Papa and I regard each other. He wears a clean blue robe trimmed with silver, and I see that beneath his long white beard, there are new amulets hanging about his neck. “So you would see me made queen of Naples?” I ask quietly.

  He plants his hands on the table, leaning over it, looming over me. The amulets sway and tangle in his beard. “Everything I have done, I have done for you, Miranda!” he says in a low, fierce voice. “For us!”

  I look away, my eyes stinging. “The king’s son might have come to love me in his own right.”

  Papa laughs again; this time it is a harsh sound. “Love! What do you know of love?”

  Caliban.

  I know Caliban in his constancy; I know Caliban in the depth of profound misery in his dark eyes, believing himself monstrous and unworthy of me. I know Caliban with his tense, hunched shoulders, the hard-muscled blades of his back spreading like wings as he crouches on the rocks above the stream to catch fish for our supper. I know Caliban who knows me; Caliban who knows Miranda.

  Caliban, who leaves flowers on my window-ledge.

  I do not know this prince.

  He does not know me.

  “I know love is cruel,” I say at last. “Whether it is more cruel when it is true or false, I cannot say.”

  “You shall have your birthright and more restored to you,” Papa says. “No more toiling for your supper; no more gathering greens and tubers and eggs; no more journey-cakes of bitter acorn meal; no more going about unshod in ill-fitting attire. Your meals shall be prepared by the finest cooks in the land, and you shall dine on good white bread, rack of lamb, roasted venison adorned with sauces of surpassing piquancy, pies and savories and sweetmeats. You shall have gowns and slippers for every occasion, you’ll have maids to attend to your needs and ladies-in-waiting to befriend you and while away the hours in pleasant pastimes and conversation. You shall see such sights and splendors as you never dared dream, Miranda. And you shall learn, in time, to love the prince.”

  It is a dazzling picture that Papa sketches for me, and I should like to say I care naught for any of it, but it would be a lie. “Should I be allowed to continue painting?” I hear myself ask.

  “You shall have pigments of the finest quality.” Papa sounds weary. “And the doting prince shall indulge your every foible.”

  “Why could you not—”

  Tell me, I mean to ask; but Papa divines the familiar plaint and interrupts me ere I can give voice to it. “I’d no wish to raise your hopes if it were in vain, Miranda,” he says to me. “To bring the events of this day to pass, to influence matters from afar so that the king’s vessel did pass near enough to the isle … it has been the undertaking of a lifetime.”

  “I know, Papa,” I murmur.

  He studies me. “Tell me, would you have been content on the isle these long years had I dangled the possibility of such a prize before you?”

  I meet his gaze squarely. “As to that, we shall never know, shall we? No more than I’ll ever know if the prince might have come to love me for myself.”

  Papa lifts one hand from the table and turns it palm upward as though to cede me the point. “Forgive me, child,” he says in a quiet voice. “There was too much at stake, and I dared leave nothing to chance.” His wrinkled eyes flicker. “Does that mean you intend to abide by my will in this matter with good grace, child?”

  Although I am grateful for the semblance of an apology, I do not fail to note Papa’s phrasing; one way or another, I will abide by his will. Whether or not to do it with grace is my choice. “What of Caliban?” I ask him. “What is to become of him?”

  “Caliban?” Papa looks blankly at me. “I suppose some menial position might be found for him.” He pauses to reconsider, stroking his beard in thought. “Although I might make better use of our wild lad. As a savage who learned speech, he would serve as the subject for many an interesting discourse.”

  Oh, Caliban! My heart aches at the prospect; but then here is Ariel, returned from his latest errand.

  “Master!” the spirit announces, eyes sparkling like the sunlit sea. With every hour that passes, every piece of Papa’s plan that falls into place, his freedom grows closer in reach. “The king and his retinue draw nigh!”

  “Well done, gentle spirit!” Papa praises him. “Lead them to the innermost courtyard of the palace, bypassing our presence here, and there address them as I bade you.”

  Ariel bows. “In a trice!”

  Papa turns to me. “I’ve pressing business at hand. Do I have your word that you’ll make yourself pleasant and helpful to the young prince, or need I threaten punishment for the lack of courtesy?”

  I have no cause to begrudge the prince my courtesy. “No, Papa. I will be as pleasant as I may.”

  “If all goes well, I shall send for both of you.” Papa glances out into the kitchen garden where Prince Ferdinand is industriously skinning the sacrificial he-goat. He frowns to himself, and summons a pair of gnomes who come trotting obediently in answer. “They will tend to the spit, for it is metal and of their element,” he says. “See to it that the prince is rendered presentable after his labors.”

  I incline my head. “Yes, Papa.”

  “I pray there’s firewood to suffice,” he says fretfully, and glances around again. “Where is that villain Caliban?”

  I would that I knew. “I know not, Papa.”

  In another part of the palace, there are indistinct voices; men’s deep voices, and then Ariel’s voice.

  “I must go,” Papa says.

  I venture into the kitchen garden to make myself pleasant. The silent gnomes trot after me, carrying the great spit from the hearth between them.

  The goat’s carcass lies on the dusty ground, headless and skinned. Kneeling on one knee, the prince slits its belly and removes the glistening offal, piling it neatly on the raw hide.

  His hair has dried; it is brown with threads of bronze that glint in the sun. It looks soft to the touch.

  “Such rude labor is no more fit for your delicate gaze than it is for a prince’s stature, my lady!” he exclaims when he sees me; then he catches sight of the pair of gnomes and stares. “What new wonder is this?”

  “Only simple earth elementals bound to Papa’s service,” I say. “They will tend to the goat’s cooking.”

  “Such marvelous creatures!” he says as the gnomes set about spitting the goat.

  “Are there no spirits to assist with the chores of the household from whence you come?�
� I ask.

  Prince Ferdinand laughs. “No, to be sure! But you will find willing mortal hands a-plenty, my lady.” I draw a bucket of water from the well to sluice the dust from the goat’s flesh, and he takes it from me with alacrity. “Your father set me this task, my lady! You must allow me to complete it. Only…” He pauses. “Might I beseech the boon of your name as my reward?”

  My name.

  It seems to me there is a power in names. It was the gift of my name that allowed Caliban to remember his own, the first step on the road to regaining human speech. When I first awoke from my affliction, uncomprehending and terror-stricken, Caliban returned the gift to me, and thus began the long road of restoring me to myself.

  If Caliban had not surrendered the name of Setebos to Papa, Ariel would still be howling in his pine tree.

  Papa calls upon the arcane and numerous names of the seven governors to draw down their influence each and every day, and today, he summoned the raging wind by calling its secret names.

  I am not sure I wish to give the prince my name.

  Oh, but that is foolish, for he will learn it sooner or later; and since I am in large part responsible for his ensorcellment, mayhap ’tis only meet I should offer it to him as a gift.

  “Miranda,” I say. “I am Miranda.”

  Something in my heart twinges at the words.

  Prince Ferdinand only smiles at me. “Miranda,” he says. “It is a name as beautiful as its bearer.”

  I find myself loathing him a measure less, but oh, dear Lord God, I wish he was not bespelled.

  Elsewhere in the palace—in the innermost courtyard, I trust—Ariel’s voice has fallen silent. I can hear only piteous moans and low utterances muffled by distance and the crumbling walls. There the fate of dukes and kings and nations is being decided; and I have not the slightest say in the matter, nor even the chance to bear witness to it.

  Outside, the sun is shining as though the storm never was.

  It shines upon me.

  It shines upon the prince.

  Somewhere it shines upon Caliban, but I do not know to whence he has fled. I am alone in the garden with the dead goat and the live prince, two grinning gnomes shouldering the spit, a handful of chickens pecking and scratching in the dust, and in the far corner, the nameless nanny-goat scratching her ear with one hind foot, careless of the fate of one of her kind.