Miranda and Caliban(18)

Why did he leave the palace, I wonder? Did he flee upon his mother’s death? Or was it something else that caused him to leave its shelter? If it is true that Papa and I did not always live on the isle, I wonder, I wonder … could it be that he fled in the face of our arrival?

Where did he dwell for all that time? How did the witch Sycorax die? And how is it that Papa is so very certain that she perished years ago?

There are so many questions.

When Papa decides Nunzia is no longer laying well enough and must be sacrificed for our supper it grieves me, though not as deeply as the loss of my poor sweet Bianca. Papa praises me for the maturation of my sensibilities, and I use the sad occasion to speak to Caliban of death.

It seems to me that he understands; and understands, too, when I explain to him that his Umm is dead. This does not seem to surprise him—but after I tell him that Umm is not in the sky with God, he does not wish to speak further of her. Not of his mother, not of the spirit Ariel, not of the bad name.

If I press him, he becomes sullen. And so I press gently and with care, hoping to tease the name out of his memories without disturbing the peace of our household.

It is so hard to know how much Caliban remembers! I find myself wondering not only what he might tell me of his past when he is better able to do so, but if there is aught he might tell me of my past.

It is a dangerous and thrilling thought, but I dare not ask.

So instead we speak of God and trees and hens and nuts and fish and all manner of things beneath the sun.

Papa is patient throughout the long months of winter, content not to rush matters. I should like to think it is wholly due to kindness, but I suspect it is also true that the stars are not yet favorable for an endeavor such as freeing the spirit Ariel. Whatever the cause, Papa continues to be generous. He even grants Caliban and me permission to forage farther afield to gather firewood and fill our larder with whatever we might find when our stores begin to dwindle.

Airy sylphs attend us on our journeys, but they do nothing to trouble us. Those are my favorite times, when I need not cudgel my wits about God and memory, and Caliban is in fine spirits.

Outside the palace grounds, our roles are changed. Caliban knows all the best places to forage, and he is fast and deft and sure. We do not venture so far as the seashore, which Papa has forbidden, but Caliban scampers up the ridged trunks of date palms as quick as thought, throwing down handfuls of fruits, their flesh shriveled but still sweet. I laugh and fill the apron of my robe until it sags under the weight; and Caliban laughs too, eyes bright with pride. He climbs olive trees too, shaking their limbs until they discharge their overripe bounty.

Oh, and there are fish, too! Heedless of the chill waters, Caliban wades in the swift stream that descends from the mountains and catches fish with his bare hands, tossing them to the banks where they flop halfheartedly, sluggish with cold. I pick them up and put them in a pail, their silver scales shining.

When we bring home our spoils, Papa praises us. At night, he locks Caliban into his cell, but Caliban does not seem to mind so much. I think mayhap he is grateful for the shelter during these winter months.

On the days when the driving rain keeps us indoors, if there are no other chores to do, I practice sewing on scraps of fabric. I gloat over the rich colors of the thread, and Caliban gloats with me.

I wish winter would never end.

It does, though.

I do not know when I begin to suspect Caliban is not being wholly truthful with me. It does not come all at once, but creeps into my thoughts. As the days grow longer, he becomes restless; reluctant to return from our ventures, chafing at being confined to his cell at night. When we are afield, I sometimes think that if he did not fear Papa’s magic, he would flee. I often find him glancing toward the rocky crags northwest of the palace, a yearning look on his features; but when at last I ask him what lies yonder, he shakes his head and does not answer.

“Is it your home?” I press him. “Is it where you lived before Papa summoned you to the palace? Is it where you slept and took shelter?”

He affects not to understand. “I do not know.”

I do not wish to disbelieve him, and yet more and more, I do.

Caliban knows more than he is saying; and if that is true of one thing, I fear it may be true of others.

And I wish, oh, I wish that Papa would simply change his mind about freeing the spirit Ariel; that he might grant Caliban his freedom instead, and the three of us might live peacefully together as we did during the winter months.

But no, Papa will not hear of it. I dread the day he loses patience and asks after Caliban’s progress.

Like spring, that, too comes nonetheless.

I do not wish to confess my suspicions to Papa, but in the end, I do. The guilt I feel at betraying Caliban is nothing to the guilt I would feel were I to deliberately deceive Papa.

Papa listens without comment until I have finished. “I fear that I have been too lenient,” he muses. “I’ve given the lad too loose a rein, trusting that his fledgling sense of reason would prevail in this matter, but it seems a greater incentive is required.” He lowers both hands onto the kitchen table with a decisive thump, and the weathered wood rattles. “Well and so. ’Tis time to tighten the reins.”

My stomach clenches. “What do you mean to do, Papa?”

He gives me a grim smile. “You shall hear it on the morrow.”

And so I do.

No matter what his mood the previous night, Caliban leaps up eagerly every morning when his cell is unlocked, ready to embrace the day’s measure of sunlight and freedom. Today is no different; not at first, not until Papa extends one hand palm outward in a forbidding gesture.