Miranda and Caliban(16)
It seems unfair, and I still do not understand why freeing this spirit, this Ariel, is so important. To serve Papa, yes; but to what end?
There is so much Papa does not tell me.
I remind myself that he wants only to protect me, and that it is churlish and disloyal to question him.
After all, what if Papa were to perish, leaving me to fend for myself? The mere thought of it makes my mouth go dry with fear. At least I would not be wholly alone, as poor Caliban was—oh, the thought of it makes my heart ache!—but what would the two of us do without Papa? I do not even know how to tend the fire in the hearth, and if it were to go out, I would not know how to ignite it anew. All the elemental spirits would desert us; no more gnomes to till the gardens, no more sylphs to drive eddies of dust from the palace floors, no more cavorting undines to fill our wells with cool, clear water and make the sparkling fountains flow.
It would not be long, I think, before I was well nigh as savage as Caliban, covered in filth and gnawing on raw fish.
Thinking such things, I am ashamed of myself and filled with gratitude for Papa and all that he does.
The great pine’s bark is shaggy and rough, and its long needles are dark green. Massive branches reach out from its trunk. The flagstones surrounding the square of bare soil at its base are cracked and tilted at odd angles, lifted by the force of its roots—or mayhap by the spirit’s struggle. There are fallen needles and pinecones scattered over the flagstones. Caliban has no more liking for this pine tree and its captive than I do, and we have not dared venture beneath the shadow of its limbs on our foraging forays. Whenever we have cause to pass through the gates into the front courtyard, we give it a wide berth, and Papa has never objected.
Today, though, he leads us straight to it.
The needles rustle at our approach and the spirit lets out a low moan. Caliban whines in response, hanging back. Papa gives him a stern look.
“All is well,” I say in an encouraging tone, marching up to the verge of the tree’s shadow. “See?”
“Caliban.” Papa beckons to him. “Tell me, do you know this spirit?” He gestures to the tree. “This Ariel?”
The spirit lets out a shriek, and I flinch. Near the top of the tree, high overhead, a knotty seam mars the trunk, as though its wooden flesh was split asunder and scarred as it knitted.
“Ar-i-el.” Caliban’s upper lip curls. “Ar-i-el. Ariel. Yes, Master.”
“Good.” Papa nods. “Very good. Caliban … do you remember your mother?” He pauses. “Sycorax?” Caliban gazes at him without understanding, and he tries several other words. “Mitera? Mana? Manoula?”
Caliban responds to none of them.
“Curious.” Papa frowns in thought. “The witch’s cypher was based on Greek, which leads me to suspect that was her native tongue, but the lad recognizes none of the terms for mother. Still, if she was practicing her dark arts in Algiers for many years … perhaps the script in which she kept her journal was the only written language known to her. Perhaps it is not the tongue she was accustomed to speaking.” He tries another word. “Umm?”
I do not know the word; but this time it seems Caliban does. He blinks rapidly several times, his mouth opening and closing. “Umm.” He croons the word, then shivers and shakes himself. “Umm.”
“It is the Moorish word for mother,” Papa murmurs to me. “’Tis a pity I know little of their tongue, for I suspect I have guessed rightly.”
I think so, too.
“Caliban.” Papa stoops before him, going to one knee so that their gazes might be on a level. “Umm imprisoned Ariel in the tree. I wish to free him.” He touches his chest. “Master free Ariel.”
“No, Master.” Caliban’s expression has turned stubborn. “No!”
“I believe there is a word locked in your memory, lad.” Papa touches Caliban’s brow with one finger. “It is the name of the unholy deity that Umm worshipped and taught you to worship in turn. It is the name with which she bound the spirit Ariel into captivity. You have but to recollect the name and tell me, and you shall have your freedom.” Straightening, he smiles and holds out his arms. “When Ariel is free, Caliban is free!”
The last part, Caliban understands. “Why?” he spits, glowering. “Why, Master? Ariel is bad.”
The spirit groans.
I think about the sewing casket Papa gave me this morning. It seems to me that I remember the ladies with the soft hands and soft cheeks sewing in the chambers of the stone house where pictures hung on the walls, silver needles darting and flashing, intricate patterns of embroidery growing slowly in their wake. Papa said he could show me a simple stitch; mayhap he is right, and I could teach myself more. If he would permit me to study one of his robes with fine embroidery at the hem, mayhap I might determine how it was done.
Although that is a foolish dream; ’twould be better were I to learn how to use whatever fabric remains to us to cut and sew simple garments. I know only that I should like to have been given a day, one day, to enjoy my unexpected gift; to examine the hanks of colorful thread one by one, to test the edges of the shears and the sharpness of the needles.
It would have made a fine new lesson for Caliban, too. Instead, he is being set a task that may be impossible to accomplish.
“… must learn to trust Master,” Papa is saying sternly to him. Caliban wears a sullen look.