Miranda and Caliban(14)

He shudders. “Good.”

It is then that I realize Caliban is trying to protect me from Papa’s anger, and I curse myself twice over for my carelessness, but there is nothing I can do save sit with him until the spasms cease, apologizing softly.

Although it feels like an act of disloyalty, I do not tell Papa what happened.

When I return to Caliban’s cell the next day, I am careful to keep myself between him and the door, frightened that he will make another attempt, but he is listless and obedient that day and in the days that follow, taking little interest in our lessons. It seems that having had an unexpected hope snatched away has caused him to lose all semblance of hope, and I begin to worry about him.

Papa does, too.

“How does our wild boy’s tally stand, child?” he asks me. “Has it been a full unbroken month of good behavior yet?”

I shake my head. “Twenty-four days.”

He frowns in thought. “Does it seem to you that he has a melancholic aspect of late?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Well, it seems that the lad’s applied himself assiduously to your lessons, and I’d not see him languish for lack of reward.” Papa nods to himself. “Yes, I think it meet. Do you agree?”

I am unsure I hear him aright. “Do you mean to let him out of his cell? Truly, Papa?”

Papa smiles at me, one of those rare smiles that breaks over his face like dawn, transforming its sternness. “I do.”

I imagine that Caliban will react to his first taste of freedom with wild leaps and bounds of joy, but I am wrong. He is fearful and uncertain, as though he is afraid this, too, will be taken from him as unexpectedly as it was granted.

Papa chose the cypress garden for our outing, as it is the only one with no gaps in the walls; although there is no gate at either end of it and I am quite sure Caliban could scale the rugged blocks as handily as a lizard if he wished.

He does not, though. He hunches and shuffles along the path between the tall green cypress trees, squinting his eyes tightly against the bright sunlight. It was always dim in the bottom of his cell where the sun’s rays could not reach. I try to think how long it has been since Papa summoned him.

A long time.

“All is well, lad.” Papa lays a soothing hand on Caliban’s head. “There’s no cause for fear.”

Caliban sighs as if in grave doubt.

And yet, bit by bit, the fear begins to drain from him. His tightly hunched shoulders ease. His spine unbends. He lifts his head and begins to look about the garden, his nostrils twitching. There is a good deal to see and smell—the cypresses, the lemon and orange trees with tart fruit ripening on their branches, beds of myrtle and lavender, jasmine on the vine. Oh, and there are swallows darting overhead on swift wings in pursuit of small insects, and soft, murmuring calls from other birds roosting in the trees, and the sound of water splashing in a fountain.

“Sun.” Caliban utters the word as though it were a prayer. There are tears in his eyes. “Thank you, Master.”

Papa inclines his head. “You are welcome.”

I should be glad—and yet I am not, not wholly.

It is as though there are two Mirandas sharing the same skin. One is proud and grateful that Caliban has learned so well that he does not even attempt to flee. The other wishes that he would.

It is a wicked thought, a disloyal, disobedient, and sinful thought; and yet it is there nonetheless.

Papa claps Caliban’s shoulder. “Do you continue to earn my trust, lad, one day mayhap you shall be free to roam at will.”

“Free.” Caliban echoes him, and although I have not taught him the word, he seems to find meaning in it. “Free.”





SEVEN





CALIBAN


Grass, sky, birds.

Grass is green. Sky is blue. Birds fly.

Birds fly in the blue sky.

Birds are free. Free is sun and sky and grass every day. Free is no walls. Yes, please. Yes, thank you.

Caliban is good.

Trees, flowers, bees. Bees buzz-bizz-buzz-bizz. Bees are free. Trees have leaves. Flowers have leaves.

Lizards.

Lizzzzzards.

Caliban counts trees. Miranda and Caliban count trees. Miranda and Caliban count trees and birds and bees.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven …

Many, yes.

Many-many-many.

Miranda is glad.

Master is glad. Glad Master is good.

I am good. Caliban is good. I am Caliban. I am good every day. I am good on the green grass. I am good in the blue sky. I am good under the trees.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven …

Caliban counts days.





EIGHT





MIRANDA


As the weeks pass, Caliban’s disposition improves on the daily doses of freedom that Papa allots him.

Our lessons grow increasingly productive now that there is more of the world to explore. Under Papa’s watchful eye, Caliban and I occupy ourselves gainfully, gathering nuts and firewood against the coming winter’s chill.

And Caliban is good almost every day; good and obedient and helpful. He learns words such as what and where and how and why, and begins to ask questions. Papa encourages him in it, except for when he is tired and impatient, and does not wish to be plagued with questions, some of which have no sensible answers.