Miranda and Caliban(15)
I think surely that Papa will relent any day and grant Caliban a greater measure of trust and allow him his freedom, but no. Every night, Caliban is locked in his cell, until I begin to wonder what further sign of obedience Papa is waiting for.
One morning, Papa tells me.
He commences by announcing that on this day, I have reached seven years of age, and marks the occasion with a gift—a silver casket containing sewing implements: needles and a pair of shears and precious hanks of colorful thread. “It is time you began learning arts suited to a young lady,” he says to me.
It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Overwhelmed, I clutch it to my chest. “Papa! Wherever did it come from?”
He smiles indulgently at me. “Oh, I’ve had it in my possession all along, child. I was merely waiting for the right time.”
“I don’t know how to use it,” I say humbly.
“You’ll learn,” he says. “You know how to tie a knot, and I daresay I can manage to show you a simple stitch.”
I beam at him. “Thank you, Papa!”
Papa inclines his head. “You are welcome.” His tone grows serious. “There is another matter I wish to discuss with you, Miranda.”
I set the casket aside and pay him close heed. “Yes, Papa?”
He hesitates. “The spirit in the pine tree … I believe it was confined therein by Caliban’s mother.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Caliban’s mother?”
Papa strokes his beard. “It is a difficult matter to discuss with one of your tender years and sensibilities, but if I am right, yes. Some dozen years past, I recall hearing tales of the witch Sycorax, who was banished from Algiers for practicing sorcery of the darkest nature. Sailors armed with the strongest of talismans against her charms brought her to a deserted isle and there abandoned her.” He pauses. “It is said that she was with child at the time.”
“Caliban?” I whisper. “But what happened to his mother, then? And who was his father?”
Papa hesitates again, then shakes his head. “If it was indeed she, and let us postulate that it is so, the witch Sycorax perished years ago, leaving her young son, our wild lad, to fend for himself. Hence, his reversion to a savage state. As to the latter, I will not sully your ears with crude and idle speculation.” Seeing a question forming on my lips, he holds up one finger for silence. “She kept a journal of her workings written in a cypher. I have spent countless hours unlocking its secrets, including the means by which she bound the spirit Ariel.”
“Ariel,” I murmur to myself. So the spirit in the pine tree has a name. It is a pleasant-sounding name for a being whose wails and moans make my skin creep with fear.
“Unfortunately, there is a piece of the puzzle lacking,” Papa continues. His mouth draws into a frown. “The witch Sycorax served a demonic and unholy master, and it is in his name that she bound the noble spirit. And that name, I fear, she dared not set down in writing, not even in cypher.”
I follow his thoughts. “Do you think Caliban knows it, Papa?”
“I think it is possible,” he says. “If I guess rightly, he would have had some four years of age when she passed. He knew his own name; I suspect he was possessed of language ere it was lost to him. And it is likely that his mother would have raised him to worship the same foul deity.”
I shudder, but I am already thinking. “It will not be an easy question to pose him.”
“Yes.” Papa gives me a brief nod of approval. “It is a more complex notion than our wild boy can yet parse. But it is toward that end that I wish you to begin working. Therefore, today we will visit the great pine, and I will put the question to Caliban.”
My brows knit in distress. “Forgive me, Papa, but I fear he will not understand it. Not yet.”
“Did I just not say that very thing?” Papa’s tone takes on an edge of impatience. “Pay heed, child. Your duty is to shape Caliban’s lessons in such a way that he does come to understand the question; and understands, too, that the price of his freedom is the answer I seek. Do you understand?”
Lowering my gaze, I study the rough-hewn wood of the kitchen table. Who built it, I wonder? The long-ago Moors? The witch Sycorax? Or did Papa build it himself?
“Miranda.”
An unexpected jolt of pain seizes my limbs. I draw in a sharp breath, blink back tears, and lift my gaze to meet Papa’s. His hand is closed around the amulet that bears a lock of my hair. “Yes, Papa?”
His grip eases. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa.” I take a longer, slower breath. “I do, and I will do my best to make Caliban understand, too. Only … only why is it so important to free this spirit?” I shiver. “It frightens me.”
“Ah.” Papa’s expression softens. “Be not afraid, lass. The spirit does but inveigh against its confinement, much as our wild lad did in the early days of his tenure here. But it is of a higher order of beings, as far above the humble elementals as the thrones and dominions are above the angels. Although it rebelled against Sycorax’s base demands, I believe it will serve a godly master with grace and goodwill.” He rises from the table. “Enough. Let us be about the business at hand.”
I stow the sewing casket in my chamber. My joy at the unexpected gift is tempered by uneasiness. I thought Papa meant to reward Caliban with his freedom if he continued to behave gently, and I have all but promised him as much. What if Caliban doesn’t know the answer?