Miranda and Caliban(17)

“Papa,” I say when he has finished. “Is it not possible that the name you seek might be found in one of your books?” Although I have only caught an accidental glimpse, I know Papa has a great many books in his sanctum. One day when I am grown, he says I may be allowed to handle some of them.

“Do you imagine I have not scoured their pages, child?” Papa says, but his voice is mild. “Do you suppose I have not tried invoking the names of demonic spirits known to the magi of yore in my attempts to free the spirit?”

“No,” I murmur.

“The witch guarded her secrets closely, most especially the name of whatever foul deity she served.” Papa raps his knuckles lightly on Caliban’s head, and there is a measure of affection in the gesture. “If it is to be found anywhere, it is within the confines of her son’s thick skull.”

Caliban grunts.

I sigh, thinking what a difficult chore it will be to make him understand what is being asked of him.

“Miranda.” Papa’s gaze is at once stern and bright, like the sun’s rays breaking through clouds far out to sea. “Your assistance in this matter is vital. There is a reason for everything I do, and one day when you are older, I promise, I will reveal the full scope of all that my plans encompass. Today I merely ask that you have a measure of the faith in yourself that I have in you.”

Once again, I am ashamed. “Yes, Papa.”

He smiles at me. “Very well.”

We retreat from the outer courtyard, abandoning the pine tree and its captive spirit—Ariel.

In a generous gesture, Papa determines that Caliban and I might be allowed to conduct our lessons outside his cell without supervision, so long as we do not leave the palace grounds.

At least it is something, I think.

And I set about the task of attempting to explain the notion of God to the witch’s son.





NINE





CALIBAN


God is big.

God is in the sky.

God is bigger than Caliban and Master and Miranda; God is bigger than grass and trees. God is bigger than the sun and moon.

Please, God is to pray. Thank you, God is to pray.

What is God? God is Master’s Master. God is Miranda’s Master. God is everyone’s Master.

Why is God? God makes everything.

Miranda and Caliban count chickens. One … two … three … four big hens, then one … two … three.

Now Nunzia is not. Nunzia is dead.

We eat Nunzia. Nunzia is good. Nunzia is in the sky with God.

We count little hens. One … two … three … four … five little hens. Elisabetta is the little hens’ mother. Claudio is a rooster. Claudio is the little hens’ father.

Big hens make eggs. Eggs make little hens. God makes everything.

Master is Miranda’s father.

Umm is Caliban’s mother.

Umm is not. Umm is dead.

(I know.)

Is Umm in the sky with God? No. Umm is bad. Umm makes Ariel not free in the tree. Umm does not pray to God. Umm says please and thank you to a bad name.

What is the name?

It is a bad name.

Why?

Because it is not God.

Why is God good?

Because God is God.

To know a thing from yesterday and yesterday and yesterday is to remember.

I remember yesterday.

I remember Umm. I remember Ariel. Umm is good and bad. Ariel is good and bad.

Bad, bad, bad.

Master says no, Ariel is good. Master is good and bad.

I am good. I find nuts. I find nuts and dates and olives. I find sticks for the fire and fishes to eat.

I remember yesterday and yesterday and yesterday.

(I find Umm. Umm is dead.) Miranda is good. Miranda has white thread and black thread and red thread and green thread and blue thread and yellow thread.

Where is Miranda’s mother?

Where is Caliban’s father?

Miranda says, I do not know. Miranda says, what is the bad name?

I am bad.

I do not want to say.

I say, I do not know.





TEN





MIRANDA


Winter is long and dull and grey, and even though it never gets truly cold on the isle, there is a damp chill that never seems to go away. The kitchen with its cozy hearth is the only place to escape it. In the past, I would spend most of my waking hours there, doing such chores or lessons as Papa set me.

This winter is different. Despite its discomforts, it is the finest one I remember. Under Papa’s tutelage, I graduate from forming the alphabet to writing entire words and then full sentences on my slate, feeling my mind stretch and grow in the process.

But most of all, it is good, oh, so very good, not to be alone and lonely! And now I am a teacher, too.

’Tis true that there are days when I despair of teaching Caliban to understand the notion of God—a notion I cannot remember not knowing and struggle to explain—but he makes great progress in other things. With every week that passes, it grows easier to converse with him.

It is strange to think that Caliban was a young child in this palace just as I was. I have known him only as a part of the isle’s very landscape, as much as the rocks and trees and sea, and never imagined it had been otherwise. Now I understand why he did not marvel at the palace when first Papa summoned him. It was already familiar to him; indeed, like as not he was born in it. He learned to crawl in its empty halls and played in its gardens while his mother Sycorax practiced her dark arts in the very sanctum that now belongs to my father, recording the results in a cypher.