Miranda and Caliban(25)

I had thought mayhap Papa would allow Caliban to join us at the table since he had proved his loyalty, but it seems not.

“You must not get in the habit of thinking the lad your equal in stature, Miranda,” Papa chides me. “Nor allow him to think it. You are as far in stature above base-born Caliban as the noble spirit Ariel is above the simple nameless elementals that serve us.”

“I know nothing of the spirit save his moans and wails,” I murmur.

“No mind,” Papa says dismissively. “You shall gain a greater understanding of my meaning when Ariel is freed. According to the witch’s notes, it is a powerful and a most mercurial spirit, so we shall invoke Mercury’s aid. I intend to undertake the effort in the first hour of Mercury’s day three weeks hence, when the planets are in a favorable aspect. I shall need a hare for the ritual,” he adds. “Can you guess why a hare?”

It has been a long time since Papa set me such a test. I try to remember the stories he has told me of the planets which are the seven governors, and the tales written in the stars about them.

At last I give up and shake my head.

“Mercury is named for that Roman god whom the Greeks named Hermes,” Papa says.

Now I remember. “The messenger.”

Pleased, Papa nods. “Fleet-footed Hermes, divine messenger, patron of thieves and tricksters, shepherd of souls. The ancient Greeks depicted him with winged sandals on his feet.”

“So he was swift like a hare,” I say. “And like draws like.”

“Indeed.” Papa accords me another nod. “Thus do the emanations of Mercury wield influence over those creatures which are fleet of foot; and thus do those self-same creatures, among others, draw Mercury’s influence.” He looks at me, his gaze shrewd and thoughtful. “You’ve a keen mind, child, though I fear I’ve neglected it these many months. Once I succeed in this endeavor, that will change, I promise you. And one day, you may even be of aid to me in my own studies.”

I say nothing, thinking.

Fleet-footed Hermes—it is a pleasing phrase. But I am not so sure about thieves and tricksters. I try to imagine a god with winged sandals. It is a pleasing image. But is he real? And if so, what has the messenger god of some ancient Greek people to do with a celestial body moving in its sphere in a harmonious universe ordered by the Lord God Himself?

I want to ask Papa, but I am weary from the day’s long sojourn and my thoughts are crowded by too many questions to give voice to them.

And Papa is still talking. “… attributes of Mercury are neither masculine nor feminine, for he is either one or the other; in conjunction with a masculine planet, he becomes masculine, but in conjunction with a feminine planet, he becomes feminine. Of his own nature, he is cold and dry, and melancholic in aspect—Miranda, are you paying heed?”

I give him a guilty glance. “Yes, Papa.”

His expression softens. “The day grows late and you should be abed,” he says kindly. “On the morrow, I shall give you a list of confluences that you may begin copying and memorizing.”

I am grateful for his kindness. “Thank you, Papa.”

I sleep and my dreams are uneasy, tinged by guilt and overshadowed by the memory of the monstrous grinning skull rearing out of the crag, muddled with images of hares and hens. I dream of the great spheres turning in the heavens above and around us, and atop one crystalline sphere there runs a god with winged sandals on his feet. It seems to me that his face changes from a man’s to a woman’s as he passes the other planets in their stately orbits, but it always wears a trickster’s grin.

But the dreams fade in the bright light of day, and I find I am excited about the new task Papa has set me. He gives me a slate with a list of beasts and birds and things over which Mercury has rulership to copy and memorize, cautioning me that it is only the merest beginning drawn from diverse sources according to his own studies.

To Caliban he gives the task of catching a hare. “Do you think you can do it, lad?” he asks.

Caliban looks uncertain. “Hares are very fast, Master.”

“True,” Papa says. “But hares are not blessed with reason. You need not be swifter than a hare, only more clever. Now how do you suppose you might outwit a hare?”

Caliban considers, then brightens and mimes a throwing gesture. “Hit it with a rock, Master?”

“Well reasoned,” Papa praises him. “But I require the hare alive and uninjured. What else might you do?”

I look up from my slate. “There is a meadow where we have seen hares, Papa. Might one not study their pathways and dig a hole and cover it with long grasses to trap one?”

He gives me a stern look. “I am asking Caliban, Miranda.”

Feeling slighted, I return to my slate.

“Dig a hole like Miranda say, Master?” Caliban suggests tentatively.

“Yes, of course, one might set a trap.” Papa hands him a worn length of braided leather cord. “How might you use this to do so, lad?”

Caliban turns it over and over, tugs it taut, ties a knot in it. ’Tis true that he’s become ever so much more dexterous, but I can see he has no guess. When he steals a glance at me, I shake my head ever so slightly. I do not have a guess, either.

“Here.” Papa takes the cord back from him and ties a different kind of knot, one that slides up and down the length of the cord and makes a loop of it. He returns it to Caliban. “If you’re cleverer than a hare, you ought to be able to find a way to make use of this to catch one. Only mind that it doesn’t choke ere you’ve a chance to release it.” Caliban looks askance at the cord, and Papa makes a shooing gesture at him. “Well? Go forth!”