Miranda and Caliban(19)

“No,” Papa says. His voice is far colder than winter’s worst chill. Caliban halts and cocks his head in confusion, glancing at me. I look away. “You’ve been dishonest with us, lad. You do know the name I seek, do you not?”

When Caliban does not answer, I steal a glance at him and see a familiar sullen look settle over his features.

Papa will have none of it. “Enough with your sulks and grumbles!” He raises his voice to a roar, and Caliban flinches in fear. “Did I not bring you into our home? Have I not bathed and clothed you, fed and sheltered you? Have my daughter and I not taught you the rudiments of language? Have we not transformed you from a filthy, savage beast crawling on all fours to something that bears the semblance of a man, walking upright and capable of rational thought?”

“Please, Master!” Caliban cowers on the floor of his cell, hunkered low with arms wrapped around his head, understanding one word in ten. “Caliban is sorry!” he pleads. “Caliban is good!”

“I have no interest in cringing obsequiousness,” Papa says coldly. “You have abused my generosity. You have abused the patience and tender heart of my daughter Miranda, who has shown you nothing but kindness. Is this how you reward her for it? With lies and deception?”

He awaits an answer, but none is forthcoming. Caliban rocks on his haunches and keens in fear, and my heart shrinks in my chest to see all his progress undone. “Caliban,” I whisper. “Listen to Master! Please, listen.”

Papa gives me a sharp glance. “I’ll handle this, lass.” He turns his attention back to Caliban. “You have three days to think on the matter.” He holds up three fingers. “Three days in your cell. You shall have water, but no food. At the end of three days, I will ask you to tell me the name of the dark deity that your mother Umm worshipped. Do you understand?”

For a long moment, Caliban remains silent.

I am fairly quivering with the desire to put the question to him in simpler words, words I know he will understand, but Papa lays a firm hand on my shoulder and stills me.

At last, Caliban unwinds his arms from his head and nods without raising his gaze. “Master wants the bad name.”

“Ah, so our wild lad does understand!” There is a note of grim satisfaction in Papa’s tone. “You have three days.” With that, Papa steers me out of Caliban’s cell. He locks the door behind us and pockets the key. “You are to have no communication with him during this time, Miranda,” he says sternly. “None. His cell and the gallery above it are forbidden to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa,” I murmur.

“Good lass.” He pats my head. “I know it seems harsh, but I promise you, it is a kindness. If this tendency toward surliness and deceit were to go unchecked, it would fester in him. Speech alone does not serve to make us civilized, nor clothing, nor courtesies; nay, not even reason. It is a matter of virtues—the virtues of honesty, of loyalty, of integrity, of obedience to a higher order. These are the qualities I yet hope to instill in Caliban, although I fear that hope dwindles.”

It is a long three days.

I think about what Papa said. In truth, I am angry at Caliban. I am angry at him for lying to me. Did he think I would not suspect, when I have come to know him so well? Did he think of me at all?

Mayhap it is asking too much to wonder such a thing, for I doubt Caliban understands the nature of lying. It is not a thing we have discussed, and it is unfair to blame him for not knowing things that no one has taught him.

Still, I cannot help it. I am angry.

And I am lonely, all the more so for having known companionship these many months. Papa spends the days in his sanctum as always, immersed in his studies. I go about my chores, though I do not forage afield. Without Caliban’s guidance, I do not know where to find the spring mushrooms that are beginning to sprout. I cannot climb trees. I cannot catch fish. I milk listless Oriana and gather eggs from the cote and greens from the garden.

Caliban in his cell is silent.

By the second day, my anger has given way to sympathy. He must be hungry, but he neither pleads nor complains nor rages.

I wonder what he is thinking.

And then I begin to wonder what Papa will do if Caliban refuses to tell him the name at the end of three days, and I begin to fear, because I am quite sure I know: Papa will work a deeper spell of binding on him.

At supper on the evening of the third day, Papa confirms it. “If it comes to it, mayhap it is for the best, child,” he says gently to me. “I know you’re fond of the lad, and he’s made great strides under your tutelage, but I fear there may be a limit to how far he might progress. It is a surety that there is a limit to the amount of time I can wait on his willing obedience. The day is fast approaching when the stars will be favorable to make an attempt to free the spirit Ariel. Caliban would still be a useful servant,” he adds. “There is no reason that should change.”

I think of Oriana. “He would not be the same, though.”

“No.”

It seems cruel when I have worked so hard, and made progress that even Papa praises, to return to the very place we began. “But you won’t do it if Caliban is good, will you?” I ask. “If Caliban tells you the name, you’ll grant him his freedom?” Papa hesitates, and tears prick my eyes. “You promised!”

Papa’s expression turns stern. “No, lass. The offer was made in the assumption that Caliban would obey gladly once he understood, not engage in deception and sullen evasion.”